The Burden Truth
by PPrallon
Summary: "He is still that boy, convinced that he is invincible" a Doctor Who/Torchwood Shortfic.


The Burden of Truth

He's sixteen and he is invincible. With his best friend at his side, he thinks nothing can stop them, stop them. Then he utters a lie, he speaks a little to the officer who receives for military service. Of course they are above the age of consent. Of course they can fight. Even when he is first exposed the horrors of war, he still believes they will survive, no matter what.

He does not realize that this is a lie too.

Something blurs his vision and he angrily wipes the face with the back of the hand. Not caring that is now covered with a mixture of blood and tears. His best friend is a dead body broken and sprawled in front of him.  
>"We should be invincible," he says to himself, letting the tears come, not caring about the fact that he is surrounded by the enemy, not caring how they laugh and only the hard dry sobs remain, they released. Maybe that is a lesson for others. Perhaps it is to be a lesson for himself.<p>

As he walks through the mud toward their freedom carrying the body of his friend, Cursing the soldiers as he looks at each one of them and himself by his youthful fantasies. James Harper is dead, a heavy weight on his shoulders.

Even after his friend is buried, he still feels the burden.

He suspects that he will always feel.

It's a shock when he discovers that the Agency time is not all that he belived. The little things that he perceives in the first place, the secrets that some agents insist on not sharing, the security fund insisted that they would be necessary, the furtive glances, hushed conversations when certain members of the agency approach.  
>That's enough to make him paranoid, but he does his best to deny it. To ignore what your instincts are telling you. Then he discovers the big things, casually playing with time, changing events for someone who should not, to remain in power<p>

For him, time Should not be a game. They should be the police of the time, could not let that happen, shape it the way he liked.  
>He brings his concerns to his superiors and they laugh in his face. It is only later, after two years of his life stolen, he realizes the truth.<p>

He is still that boy, convinced that he is invincible.

No more.

* * *

><p>His last name is pronounced by his lips, a truth and a lie. Jack Harkness was a hero he was thought to be a Hero for justice within the Agency time.<br>Perhaps, just perhaps, he was able to choose a name that he would. It's safer this way, taking refuge behind a false name. It is much more difficult for the Agency to meet him again, although there are days when he wants them to.

It is in moments like this that he thinks he still feels the weight of shoulders.A James in his memory and a conviction in a simple mixture, but depressing. He tries to concentrate to stop this phantom sensation before you shoot the next target.

The ship is a bit retro, but the Agency of time is not known for sticking with the latest buzzword. Maybe this time he can. Maybe this time he can find someone who is not an agent of Time stereotyped. Maybe he's lucky.

But thanks to all his years, he knows that this is unlikely.

It is surrounded by impossible. He realizes, as he turns in a slow circle, leading to this amazing place. The gentle hum of the ship vibrates through your muscles, a comfort that he never knew I needed until now. He smiles to himself, the first genuine smile in years, he stops one of his moves to lean against one of the pillars that separate the rooms.

"Who are you?" Ask the bald man in the black jacket. "Jack," he replies before it has time to self-censor because they present with a name that was not his. What made no sense, since he had done many times. "And who are you?"

The man turns in a way but majestic sweep, was a figure dressed in genuine leather. "I'm the Doctor," he says, as if that explained everything.

Perhaps, somehow, he does. Perhaps the Doctor is "Doctor", as he is "Jack Harkness." His name? Or just a label?

"This is just a name," he says. and there is a spark of something in his eyes that almost seems to confirm his previous thoughts.

"What is a name, Captain? The sequence of letters and sounds that your name? Or is it you? Who are you?" The Doctor smiles faintly, a crack in his "tough-guy armor." "I think we both know the answer."

He shudders and turns away, suddenly seeing a terrible reflection of myself. Coward is a is another. James Harper weight rests heavily on his shoulders.

"I'm a Time Lord."

The words are unexpected and he looks at Doctor in shock. "But they are a myth. A legend." He also responds incredulously.

The Doctor laughs to himself. "I'm a little solid to be a myth. A legend? Maybe. But it is a myth? No, I do not."

Suddenly, the memories flood your mind. His excitement about the legends, the adventures of the Time Lords and their amazing machines. He always thought they were invincible and now stands before him.

But instead of a childhood hero, he sees the truth hidden behind the blue eyes of the Doctor. Not even a Lord of time is more invincible than Jack Harkness.

He hand to track down relatives of the contours of the gun, trying to force yourself to forget the feeling of his lips against his. It was a goodbye, he knows. Even now, the Daleks are can feel deep in your soul, a growing threat.  
>He faced them before and survived. But it was not by choice.<p>

"You will watch."

"No," he sobbed, trying to look away, trying to avert his eyes. He did not want to see it, can not see it. James was on the floor, his body broken only to support it, a hand extended toward her. "I can not."

"So who is the weakest?"

"Me" he said, hoping they could save James and then perhaps, just perhaps, one of them would make it out alive.

"It is this courage?"

He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and looked at the Black Dalek. "Go to hell."

There was something almost cruel about the Dalek as it swung to point his gun at James. "" THIS ONE "

He screamed, or maybe it was James, but was more in a moment. James was dead.

He blinks away the memory, squeezing her fingers tightly around the weapon. One last time, he consoles himself. Only this time he's taking the Daleks as many as possible.

"Wish me luck, James," he whispers, in a form of prayer.

He knows he will need.

It's the sound of the universe being torn. A creak increasingly penetrating the body until his begins to run, hoping desperately that the sound is what he expects.  
>But it is not.<p>

This is the sound of your heart breaking.

"Dying is not so bad," he thinks. There is a moment of pain, then darkness. It's a wake up time is difficult. He presses his hands against his chest, feeling for the wound that is not there. No matter how many times he did it, no matter how many times he died and came back again, each time seems to be worse than before.

Phantom pain run through his body, the memory of the bullet that took his life - or at least tried to - causing your muscles to contract. He's alone now, as he tried to live his life since his first death, but there is a solitary. drifting from one place to another, not daring to stay long, not daring to get too attached. Two decades have passed since the Game Station and the story remains the same.

Sometimes he lives. Sometimes, he dies. But every time he comes back up again.

That's invincibility.

* * *

><p>And as he now regrets.<p>

The dark-haired man leans on the table, staring at Jack's eyes. "Who are you?" the man asks.  
>"Anyone you want me to be." He offers, trying a warm smile for which there is no feeling behind.<p>

The blows, punches, None of this made her smile disappear. "Because life is difficult, isn't it?"

Normally, this kind of talk would be scandalous. He takes the needle without even seem disturbed. "You will answer the question."

"Why should I?" He replies. It is the tie that does respond in this way, nor is any true desire to keep the truth hidden (they would not believe it). Rather, it is exhaustion. He is tired of existence.

Another punch, only this time he tasted the metallic tang of blood. They will probably kill him, he thinks. 1922 is a dangerous moment, full of dangerous people. But nothing is more dangerous than Torchwood.

He thinks the stylized "T" on the wall behind his interrogator is mocking him. It should probably be concerned, should be trying to escape, but he's so tired.

"Who are you?" the man repeats.

"I do not know anything," he says, what is the truth.

He slips his arms into the coat. If the Doctor's favorite is the leather, the wool is his favorite. Both serve the same purpose, he knows. They keep the other, his close confidant candidate, your friends, safe in the bay.  
>He could leave them close but not too close. There are many hurting people there, too much pain. It would seem young in body but his mind was too old now to be indifferent. It is easier to be cold to survive.<p>

This is another kind of invincibility.

He has the lifeless body of Estelle in her arms, feeling his heart break again. He never realized how much it had healed his soul until now, never realized how much he cared. She's dead and gone, another James Harper, and once again, blamehim .Because those who love him have to die as he lives? Why did he have to carry this curse?

It is that moment, that second, between his overwhelming pain and their internalization of it, he begins to understand the truth.

He is invincible in the body only. Inside, it's still as vulnerable as any human being.

At the end when he meets the Doctor again, he looks at the woman who stands beside the Lord of Time and see what - or rather, what he does, he has become. Thousands of accusations, tears and complaints die before they reach your throat. In his mind, he sees the flash of blond hair, a familiar smile, before disappearing again. Death is his only constant companion, he knows.  
>Despite what happened, though, there's only one thing he can offer. One thing he sees is the ultimate truth of their existence.<p>

It offers the Doctor's hand and smiles.

"I understand."

That's enough.


End file.
